Foolproof Fairytale
by Stained by His-Story
Summary: Fyedka and Chava's romance is not just a romance...it's a fairytale. Foolproof, at that.


What was it that drew me to him? His eyes? His smile? His confidence?

No.

I was drawn to Fyedka because he was different—different from anyone else I knew. He noticed things about me that my uncle and aunt took for granted. He paid attention to me, where others only glanced on, bored by what they saw. And what made me love him even more was my "family" despised him…

I was sent to live with my uncle, Tevye, and my aunt, Golde, when I was fourteen. I was welcomed with the traditional, strictness they operated with. I was raised ever so differently. There was freedom and life and a Savior Who covered both me and my sins, freeing me from religion, or restraint. Yes, it was different here, here in the rigidity of religion and stupor of strictness.

From the moment I stepped foot in the house, I struggled. Sometimes, I struggled silently, and other times, I spoke up, my tongue getting the better of me. I tried to give an example, one that my Heavenly Father would be pleased with.

I passed five years in this way, until something changed. It hurt me when Golde insisted Tzeitel marry Lazar Wolffe, the butcher. Matchmakers! I couldn't believe it!

I walked into the barn, where Uncle Tevye and Tzeitel were, offering a less than heartfelt congratulations Tzeitel after my uncle announced the news. I couldn't believe that they would marry my cousin off to a man thrice her age! But then, I also couldn't believe she was in love with the mousy tailor, Motel, either.

It's strange. Love can cover imperfections—even those we cannot live without.

It was a sunny day when I met him. I was taking a calf to the market to sell. All the girls I met congratulated me for Tzeitel and Motel's marriage. "Mazel tov," they said, their voices merry, happy, carefree.

One girl said, "Soon this will be you!"

I smiled, returning their joy with my smile. I could not think of marrying anyone, no matter how much I hated being alone. There was simply no one who understood or appreciated me, nor was there anyone who valued what I valued, believed as I believed. So, I had to be content to wait to be found, wait to be loved by the knight I knew only existed in my storybooks.

As I preoccupied myself with these dreamy thoughts, I noticed some men, "Gentiles," as my uncle called them, walk up to me. I was, of course a "Gentile," but as my mother was adopted, I was therefore, part of the family, regardless of my race. However, I heard things about these Russians that made me nervous. People said they were cruel to the Jews...so, I tried to avoid them. After all, I was a stranger, but under the protection of a Jewish household. Therefore I was not exempt from their hatred.

"Mazel tov, Chava," the men said mockingly, repeating the phrase. One touched the cow, then, my hair, dirty fingers roughly grinding the vibrant auburn strands between dirty fingertips.

"Please stop," I said, my voice feeling very small. "No." I glanced at them with a fire in my eyes. "Please, don't touch me," I said, not knowing what to do, but knowing full well that there was no one around to help.

Then, I heard a voice. It was strong, kind.

"All right. Stop it."

I looked and saw him. He stood, a hoe in his hand, eyes narrowed at the men, his hand clenching the tool, as though by doing so it would keep him calm. Perhaps it did.

"What's the matter with you, Fyedka?"

"Just stop it," he replied simply, as if he were a commanding officer, or a king.

"We were just having a little fun, Fyedka."

"Goodbye, Sasha," Fyedka said sternly. Blue eyes bore a hole into the man named Sasha, daring him to object.

When the men didn't move, he narrowed his eyes, "I said goodbye." A smile curled the corner of his mouth, as if he hoped the men would refuse to move so he could give them all a good beating.

The men began to slowly walk away, one of them touching my cheek. I stared at the ground. Fyedka walked toward me, making my insides quiver with fear. One was just as nerve-wracking-and as dangerous-as many.

"I'm sorry about that," his voice was confident, but kind. "They mean no harm." His tone suggested otherwise.

"Don't they?" I asked, glancing at him. I walked away, on towards the market. His footsteps sounded behind me.

"Is there something you want?" I asked, a bit abruptly. If I was going to be attacked, he might as well admit it.

He smiled in a mischievous, yet innocent way. "Yes, I want to talk to you."

I continued on my trail. "I'd rather not."

"Hmm." I heard his footsteps behind me. "I've often noticed you at the bookseller's. Not many girls in this village like to read. Would you like to borrow this book? It's very good."

I abruptly went to the other side of the cow. "No," I said.

"Why?" He asked. "Because I'm not Jewish? You feel about me, the way they feel about you? I didn't think you would. And what do you know about me, eh? Let me tell you about myself." A sparkle shone in his eye. "I'm a pleasant fellow. Kind, honest, charming, ambitious, hard working, quite bright…" He paused, looking up at me, perhaps enjoying the arrogance his words contained. "and very modest," he added, smiling slightly.

I laughed in spite of myself, the sound a gentle whisper in the warm breeze.

"Here," he said, offering the book to me again, "Take the book. And when you've finished it, I'll ask you how like it, and we can talk about it for awhile. Then we can talk about life—how we feel about things." He smiled kindly at me. "Here." He gently pressed the book into my hands, his calloused fingertips brushing against mine.

I bowed my head timidly at both the offer and the touch. "Thank you." I walked away.

"Good day, Chava," he said after me.

"Good day," I replied, refusing to look behind me.

"Fyedka," he told me his name.

I looked back at him, then stared back ahead of me. "Fyedka," I repeated, his name a beautiful sound to me…

I lay in my bed, the book Fyedka had given me a hard lump under my pillow. Its presence brought a million thoughts into my imaginative head.

Why would I not talk to him about the book? After all, he gave it to me. Why would I not develop a relationship with him? He was different than anyone I knew, anyone I had dreamed of. He was different like me. I couldn't help but fall for him—his first words, his personality, or what little I saw. No, I could not get ahead of myself. After all, I was nineteen, marrying age well past for me, but I was also, I knew, innocent of it. I knew of love, I loved the _idea_ of love, the stories I read, but I didn't know actual love.

I met him a few weeks later. It was in the road, in full view of any who passed by, and, we got many a strange or discriminating look. He met me with his smile. His blue eyes sparkling in the sun.

"Hello, Chava," he greeted me with a smile, his voice was strong, kind, warm.

"Hi, Fyedka," I replied. I looked away from his gaze, staring into the fields. I reached into my apron and grasped the book, offering it to him. When he reached out to take it, his fingertips brushed mine, causing me to tremble.

"Did you like the book?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

I looked at him. His eyes were bright, sparkling with life and danger and joy and mischief. I wondered where those eyes would lead me, and what they saw in the future.


End file.
